Midnight Misery
by Spinofflady
Summary: After his "adventure" with Ryker and the bounty hunters, Hiccup is feeling pretty miserable. Stoick does his best to care for his son, but it is clear that what he has to offer is not what Hiccup needs. A one shot based on "Midnight Scrum."


Midnight Misery

Everything hurt. _Everything._

His back, his shoulders, his chest, his legs, his arms, his toenails—everything throbbed in agony. Every muscle was burning, every bone was aching, and a large mass of pressure was pounding in the bridge of his nose.

Hiccup was curled up on his bed, deciding whether it would be worth it to roll over and give his right side a rest. The initial pain would be pure misery, but the side he had been lying on for the past hour desperately needed to be relieved. He bit his lip and shifted onto his back, and the sudden rush of pain that flooded his body told him clearly that he would be going no further.

Toothless snored peacefully from his place in the corner, proving that he was asleep. Hiccup fought the urge to be jealous of the dragon, but the idea of rest sounded like Valhalla to the exhausted young man.

Hiccup slowly began to hear his father snoring from below him, also indulging in sleep's luxurious comfort. Stoick had dragged him all the way back to Berk after rescuing him from Ryker and the bounty hunters, determined to "keep an eye on" his son for a few days.

Hiccup begged to go back to Dragon's Edge—it was half the flight time, after all—but to no avail. Nothing on Thor's earth could change Stoick's mind once he'd made it up. It ran in the family.

Hiccup groaned, gingerly turning his head to face the other way. It wasn't that he had to suffer alone in his room, he just preferred to. His father believed that pain was just an exercise in endurance and one should numb it with Meade.

Hiccup did _not_ drink Meade.

Well, he had once, when he first lost his leg. It was the first and last time the horrible liquid would ever touch his lips. It had numbed the pain, for certain, but it had numbed everything else, too. The hangover he'd gained was almost worse than the pain itself, and the vomiting that accompanied it was _definitely_ notworth it.

The other tactic his father might try would be ice. Ice helped, usually, but Hiccup was already shivering. It dawned on him suddenly that he might be feverish. Mala had mentioned that the darts used by the Defenders of the Wing could bring flu-like side effects, and even hallucinations, if not removed properly. He doubted the masked man from Viggo's auction knew how to remove them, or if he'd even bothered to do so.

He coughed once, the movement jarring his bruised ribs and abdomen to the point of agony. It surprised him that Ryker's massive fist hadn't punched a hole right through him. Ryker's punches made Snotlout's feel like a massage.

And his neck, oh, his neck was the worst out of all of it! His poor throat had been yanked on and choked by a chain, grabbed and squeezed by rough hands, and parched from lack on water. The bruises that were starting to form before he went to bed were sure to be hideous by morning.

Toothless sighed from the corner, and stood up briefly to change positions. The dragon stopped as he realized his rider was still awake. With a low grumble, Toothless plodded over and nuzzled Hiccup affectionately.

"Hey bud," Hiccup chuckled as softly as he could. He knew speaking would hurt too.

Toothless sniffed Hiccup intently, concern showing in the dragon's intelligent eyes. He cooed, looking from Hiccup to the door. The Night Fury suddenly started toward it, climbing down the stairs.

Hiccup suddenly realized the dragon was going to get his father. Stoick would _not_ be happy if he was woken up. "Toothless, wait!" Hiccup called out softly, wincing as he tried to roll out of bed. He had to stop Toothless before-

"What do you want, you over-grown lizard!?"

Too late. Stoick's slumber was already disturbed, so now the best thing was to pretend to be asleep. Hiccup did just that as his father's heavy footsteps stomped toward his bedroom.

"For Thor's sake, dragon, what is the matter with you?" Stoick growled as Toothless pushed him into Hiccup's loft room, pointing the man in the direction of his son. Stoick glared at the beast, angry that his sleep had been interrupted when nothing was the matter.

Toothless padded back over to Hiccup and after a few snorts, he started to lick Hiccup's chin to rouse him. The boy successfully ignored the dragon until the warm tongue reached his mouth. "Yuck! Come on, bud, that's gross!" Much to Hiccup's dismay, the words came out in a harsh whisper.

Stoick slowly approached the bed, wringing his hands thoughtfully. "Are you alright, son? Your dragon seems a bit anxious."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Hiccup realized what a pathetic lie it was; the words _sounded_ pained.

Stoick, however, seemed to buy it. "Well, I'll let you get some rest…" His sentence trailed off, and his eyes settled on Hiccup's neck. It was bruised and swollen, and the base of it was fiery red with infection, no doubt from the dart. The young man's eyes were glazed over with pain, his cheeks flushed deeply. "Hiccup, you are not fine." He came closer, taking a knee beside the bed to feel his son's forehead.

"Okay, maybe I'm not, but all I need is a good night's sleep-"

Stoick held up a hand to stop him. "I'm calling a healer. You are not well in the slightest, and could use a great deal more than a 'good night's sleep.'"

Hiccup stifled a cough and went on. "Dad, I don't need a healer. I'm okay, really."

Stoick fought the urge to roll his eyes at the obvious lie. Why couldn't Hiccup be reasonable? It was clear that he was sick and/or in pain, he simply wouldn't fess up to it. "Son, I know that you are not-" He stopped mid-sentence. Hiccup was only doing what he, his father, had taught him to do. Never show pain. Never admit to weakness.

The man sighed, knowing Hiccup would never admit to it anyway. Like Astrid had said: sometimes his pride was bigger than his brain. Stoick knew from experience how pain could injure pride considerably, but he had learned over the years that pride was no reason to suffer in silence.

"Be honest, son," Stoick coaxed. "Are you in pain?"

Hiccup dropped his gaze, but made no reply.

"I want to help. Just tell me what you need."

Hiccup's resolve broke with a pained whimper. "Oh, everything hurts," he groaned hoarsely. "I don't even know what I need." His big green eyes settled on his father, pleading for comfort.

Stoick longed to offer it, but truly didn't know how. He had always been told to work through it, keep going, and soon the worst would be over. That was what he needed, but Hiccup…Hiccup was so different. Hiccup needed sympathy, not encouragement. He needed someone to sit with him and hold him and just make things a little easier. He needed his mother.

Valka was the best at comfort. She would have made a perfect healer, had it not been for her disliking of blood. She would stay up all night, singing and caring and comforting. Hiccup desperately needed that, and Stoick knew it was something he could never offer in replacement.

He shut his eyes for a moment, picturing his beautiful wife. Good Thor, she was the only woman on earth who could turn Stoick the Vast into a stuttering fool, while at the same time giving him the urge to conquer the world. Oh, if only she were here now! She would know what to do; she wouldn't hesitate for a moment to alleviate the suffering, go heat up one of her corn bags…

The corn bags! Stoick jumped to his feet, starling his son and the Night Fury, who had settled into the comfortable silence. "I'll be right back," he told the boy as he hurried out of the room and down the creaky stairs.

Valka had used small bags filled with dried corn, heated over a fire, to ease aches and pains. He'd never admitted it to her, as he had laughed at the idea when she presented it, but they truly worked wonders. (Not to mention they made excellent foot warmers…) Did he still have them?

Stoick dug through every drawer, cupboard, and closet, frantically searching for the easily twenty year old corn bags. He finally spotted one, tucked away on one of the kitchen shelves. It was covered in dust and cobwebs, but at least it was still intact.

He clumsily picked it up, running his thick fingers over the intricate embroidery on the front—everything was a work of art to Valka. Stoick's throat tightened as he realized he'd almost forgotten how much he missed her—her melodic laugh, angelic voice, and contagious joy.

Stoick pushed aside the nostalgia, and set the bag down next to the dying fire to heat up. He could hear an occasional cough or groan from above him, and impatience slowly began to set in—Hiccup was suffering.

Deciding that the bag had warmed enough, Stoick grabbed it and headed up the stairs. As he entered Hiccup's room, the boy's pleading gaze settled on him with a look of relief.

"What's that?" he rasped quietly, staring at the bag.

"You're mother made this. It works wonders for aching muscles and sore bruises."

Hiccup rolled over, groaning slightly, and took the bag shakily from his father. He immediately caught sight of the embroidery on the front, and he paused to admire it. "Did mom do that too?" He asked softly, fingering the stitches, every last one placed perfectly.

"Aye," Stoick replied gravely, wishing Hiccup would stop admiring the stitch work and use the bag. "She wanted to make it worth keeping."

A strange look passed over his son's flushed face, and he fingering the colorful design as gently as possible. "You never told me she liked art."

"Ah, well, she stopped painting once we married-"

"She painted?" Hiccup finally looked up from the bag, clearly interested in what the answer might be.

"All the time," Stoick answered, wistfully picturing her in a field of flowers, a canvass in front of her, and skillfully recreating the scene around her on it. That was one of her favorite things to do. Valka had been obsessed with painting the sky, addicted to copying nature, and in love with the freedom that she claimed painting gave her. To say that Valka painted was an understatement. She made life beautiful—all she needed was a blank canvass.

"You never told me she painted, either." Hiccup broke into his thoughts.

"It must have slipped my mind."

"For nineteen years?"

Stoick sighed. Even now, while he was sick and in pain, Hiccup still found it necessary to be sassy. "You had better use that while it's still hot," Stoick gestured to the corn pillow. "It's no good once it cools off."

"Oh…right." Hiccup grunted in pain as he rolled back on his side, slipping the bag under the covers and leaning it against his sore, bruised, abdomen. He was sure the bruising was hideous, and honestly didn't even want to know what it looked like at this point.

The heat worked miracles. Hiccup gave a contented sigh as the warm, comforting tendrils wrapped around his mid-section, easing the throbbing aches. The extra heat was suddenly too much, and his feverish body desperately longed for cooler air. Hiccup simply ignored it, knowing that the relief was far better than a comfortable temperature.

The soothing heat weighed down on his sleepy eyelids, so much so that he could no longer keep them open. He hardly even noticed as his father pulled up a chair next to his bed, and soon both father and son had drifted off to sleep.

But the rest was short lived, as Hiccup's misery increased along with his temperature. Delirious with exhaustion and fever, the night noises and flickering candle started to play tricks with his mind, and weak as he was, he feebly tried to claw his way out from under the smothering covers.

Breathing heavily, he pushed the blankets away, disliking the feeling of being trapped under him. The littlest noises were suddenly too loud to bear, and he groaned and tried to block it out. Old wood creaking, wind blowing through the leaves of tree, snoring…why was it so loud?

His tired and confused mind tried to process everything at once, and succeeded at comprehending nothing. He forced his tired eyes to open, finding everything he could see to be blurry and unrecognizable. Were these…the walls of a ship? Was he moving? The earth seemed to be moving…rolling unevenly underneath him.

Strange images suddenly floated past his vision. Dark…shadowy…why were they so dark and the room so bright? The room was too bright, and he shut his eyes, but the figures didn't go away. They stayed, burned into his mind, floating and swirling around like shapeless ghosts.

Words and sounds were roaring in his ears, completely incoherent. Unfamiliar voices were calling his name…Hiccup…Hiccup…Hiccup…laughter, faces, eyes, leering smiles, all flashing in front of him at once.

He thrashed about wildly; causing himself more pain than he assumed was possible. It was all closing in around him, smothering him like rocks being stacked on his chest, with thousands on beady red eyes staring at him. They watched him hungrily, somehow surrounding him with growing power.

But then…there was something comforting…some distant memory, faint emotion, and without conscious thought he whimpered: "Mom!"

The commotion from the bed stirred the chief, who woke just in time to hear the cry for Valka. Slowly becoming aware of the fact that Hiccup was talking in his sleep, Stoick surveyed his child and realized his state of distress.

"Mom!" Hiccup cried again, pure pleading and desperation flooding his strained voice. He squirmed underneath the furs, as though trying to flee some invisible enemy, tears and sweat streaming down his face.

Stoick leaned forward in concern, deciding what to do. He doubted waking Hiccup was a good idea, seeing how much trouble he'd had getting to sleep in the first place. What was upsetting him so much? "Hiccup, it's alright," Stoick placed a hand on his son's shoulder, which only seemed to make matters worse.

"Mama!"

Stoick pulled back, the weak, pleading, child like cry somehow piercing his heart like a dagger. Oh, Valka…how he needed her. They both needed her.

Hiccup's head rolled to one side, the feverish boy mumbling incoherently. His hair clung to the side of his face and-

Suddenly, like switching a light on, Stoick knew what to do. He gently placed a hand on Hiccup's cheek, brushing the hair around his son's ear back and softly rubbing his temple. The young man quieted almost instantly, and his father fought the urge to smile.

Val had done this for Hiccup even since he was born. For as long as his mother had been with them, Hiccup had fallen asleep to the same comforting touch. Until he was four, Hiccup would seek out his father, and physically place Stoick's large hand on his tiny cheek, begging for the comforting action.

It had been years since Hiccup had comforted in that manner, but the touch was still embedded in his memory. He was now quiet, sleeping as peacefully as when he was a baby.

Stoick smiled and continued, knowing how much Valka would have loved to see the two of them like this. About now she would have started singing, and perhaps that would have helped as well, but there was no way on earth Stoick was going to _sing._

The moment could never be perfect without Valka's presence, but the more Stoick thought about it, the more he realized that it was wonderful just the way it was: father and son.

 _ **THE END**_


End file.
